Work Text:
John peered at the chemical splatter on the wall near the kitchen window.
"Christ, Sherlock, it's eaten into the plaster."
"Mm," Sherlock said from his chair. He didn't look up from his laptop.
"I'm serious, there's a hole! It's smoking a bit."
"Probably steam."
John pressed his lips together. "That is not better."
"No, but it's more accurate."
"She's going to charge us, you know." He stomped out to stand in front of Sherlock's chair. "Your stunt with the wall and the spray paint and the gun cost nearly two hundred pounds."
"John."
"You're bloody lucky that blast happened before she saw the bullet holes. Or before anyone else saw the bullet holes. I don't know how you think these things you do are remotely okay, I really don't. Any sane person--"
Sherlock glanced up at him, so sharply it stopped him mid-sentence. One of Sherlock's hands left his keyboard and gestured to the floor at his feet.
John glanced at it, half expecting to see another experiment, a severed limb, a case file. It was only their grubby floor, and a faint sliver of heat slipped up John's spine.
"What--"
"On the floor, John."
John swallowed. Sherlock wasn't even looking at him anymore. He'd gone back to whatever had so engrossed him that he'd left his experiment on the stove to overheat and explode. John crossed his arms over his chest.
"There's nothing on the floor. Do you want your mobile or something? Because you can get it yourself, I'm not doing it, not after that performance," he added quickly, lying. Lies came to him rather easily around Sherlock these days.
"Kneel," Sherlock said, simply, casually. "On the floor." He gestured. "Just here, at my feet."
John touched his tongue to his lower lip. "You can't just..." How useless. He swallowed, started again. "It's not-- I'm not a toy."
"If you don't do it, I won't ask again."
That had John folding at the knees so fast it hurt when he hit the ground. He caught himself with both hands, and it still hurt.
"Closer," Sherlock said. He twitched two fingers, and John shuffled closer on his knees. Sherlock rested a hand in his hair, eyes still fixed on some ever so fascinating email or website. His hand clenched and dragged John's head forward, and John's breath snagged in his throat, in his lungs, caught like a bubble inside him until he felt sure he would suffocate. Sherlock let go of his hair and shoved two fingers into his mouth.
John closed his eyes and felt heat flood his face. He clutched at the edge of Sherlock's chair. Sherlock's fingers rubbed over his tongue, and John's jeans were suddenly far too tight for comfort. He stared at his own knuckles, white from the pressure he was applying to the chair cushion.
"Do you know, you've never once said no to me?" Sherlock said. He typed something one-handed, the wingspan of thumb to little finger covering nearly the entire keyboard. "You present yourself for use, to be used, an addendum to my self. I hate to be so trite, but you actually do ask for it with every look and every breath you take in my presence."
So sorry to bore you, John might've said, but his mouth was full, invaded, and Sherlock's fingers traced his teeth and cheeks and the roof of his mouth.
"Is it about sex, or is this sufficient?" Sherlock glanced down at him and took his fingers out, wiped them across John's cheek.
John's chest was heaving. The flush had spread down his neck. His cock was pressing painfully against the zip of his jeans.
"There's rules," John blurted out. It sounded so loud, so stupid. And he meant: negotiations, safe words, sane ways to do this, even though he'd never done those things with anyone before and it seemed entirely clear that Sherlock wasn't talking about anything so compartmentalized.
"Yes, there are rules. I make them," Sherlock said. "You follow them."
"What if I don't?"
"As I said: then I won't ask again."
"Sherlock." Every muscle felt wound like a steel spring, points of heat at knees, wrists, hips, neck. His throat was tight, and he'd never felt so abruptly desperate in his life. "You can't."
"I can do anything you let me do." Sherlock finally looked at him properly, full on, assessing and measuring and cool. "And that means I can do anything. You won't ever say no to me."
John ducked his head and leaned against his hands where they still gripped the chair. It was true. He already knew, had known, for months.
"It is about sex," Sherlock said, his conclusion voice, the tone reserved for unravelled mysteries. "Not just sex, but it's a major component." He nudged the bulge in John's jeans with his bare toes, and John nearly choked. "Unzip," he said.
"You're mad," John told him. Sherlock only looked at him, confident and calm, and John unzipped and got his cock out, and god, how quickly they'd got here. Ten minutes since he stood in the kitchen complaining about the smoke (steam) coming from the hole in the plaster, maybe less.
"I suppose I could have you suck me off, but I'm honestly more interested in this article right now." His fingers brushed the keyboard, but his eyes were on John, on his red cheeks and spread knees and his hard cock, wet with pre-come and getting wetter with little shuddering jerks just from the sound of Sherlock's voice. "Do you want to get off?" he said.
"Yes," John whispered into the still room. He could hear Mrs Hudson's stereo playing downstairs. She liked showtunes. Very faintly, he could make out the lyrics to Oklahoma blending with the traffic noise from outside.
"I could tell you to put that away and get on with things," Sherlock said, considering, drawn now finally away from whatever he was reading. His attention settled on John a bit at a time, like falling snow; each bit light enough, but, together, a weight to block roads and snap trees.
"But that hardly seems dramatic enough. And anyhow we've done that. You were in the middle of a wank when I dragged you out on the case last week. What were you thinking of? Me?"
John nodded.
"Specifics," Sherlock said.
John swallowed. "I don't..."
"John. I will only ever ask once. You are being tediously slow, and I loathe repeating myself."
"You, yes," John said, quickly, steadily enough. "You--it was at a crime scene and everyone was watching and you said you had a hard on and it was distracting you from the case and I had to--to take care of it. Oh, Christ." He ducked his head. It sounded so stupid, so common, said aloud. It was stupid. Well, fantasies were. "And you made me suck your cock in front of everyone," he finished, rushed and cracked, cheeks burning hotter than ever. "It was just a daydream, I don't want--"
"It doesn't matter what you want."
Oh god, oh god, oh fuck. His cock jerked out another thin stream of fluid.
The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upward. "I was a bit worried about this. I saw it coming, of course, and I've no experience. I can see it will be far easier than I anticipated. Get yourself off. Any way you like. Providing you don't use your hands."
"What, how--"
"Toys if you have them, or you can rub off on the chair, the floor, my leg if you can manage to do it without bothering me too much."
John clenched his jaw and ducked his head. You can't do this, he wanted to say. How can you do this. I don't want this. But he plainly did, and Sherlock knew, was giving this to him like some peculiar, Sherlockian Christmas gift.
"Why?" John said, finally. "You're not even interested."
"I am interested in you, John. And I am doing this because you are mine. Now pick something to rub off on before I pick for you."
John couldn't pick. He was frozen, staring up at Sherlock, stunned by the blunt force of that statement.
Sherlock let out an irritated breath and tossed John a cushion. "That. Get your cock against that and fuck it till you come."
John took it with steady hands, shaky breath, and pressed it to his aching dick. His heart thudded against the wall of his ribs, and he couldn't believe he was going to-- He wasn't, couldn't possibly, dear god, with Sherlock watching him?
And Sherlock was watching. His head was turned toward his computer screen again, but his eyes were fixed on John and his hands were still.
John shuddered and shoved hard against the cushion. The fabric was slick and cool and fine, and he stained it immediately, a dark sticky patch where clear fluid seeped in. It felt so good. Not half enough, but so good, and he did it again, choked back a whimper, and then he was fucking into it like it was another body, humping the damn thing shamefully hard, and Sherlock's eyes were on him still, and he couldn't stop.
And Sherlock would remember this when it was over, file it away in the immense catalogue of his brain, this day John Watson knelt at his feet and spilled out his stupid fantasies and rutted into a pillow. Every time Sherlock looked at him, he'd know what John was, what he really wanted, and that thought sent John's mind spinning. His hips moved faster, and he pressed the cushion tighter against his crotch, felt naked and obscenely exposed, and oh god he really was going to come like this. He could feel it building in him, tense and hot and tingling.
He bit his lip and doubled over, whimpered as he came, jerking hard into the cushion, hot all over, so conscious of Sherlock watching. He bent over till his forehead nearly met his knees.
Sherlock touched his cheek and tugged his hair, drew him up until his face rested against Sherlock's thigh. He stayed there while Sherlock read his article. Fingers curled idly through John's hair. John ignored the mess he'd made, his aching knees and back, the cool air on his overheated skin. Sherlock would tell him when he could move again.